I USED TO KNOW HIM

CHAPTER NINETEEN

     Janet was more than a beautiful woman and a good model. She was white

heat and surging womanhood all dolled up in a body like that of a French

movie star. She was as wanton as a Polynesian dancer and as demanding as

a nympho. Lying there beside her relaxed nakedness, Nick Danson felt

like another man - a tired one.

     He laid his hand over the swelling rise of her breast and slid it down

the flat velvet of her stomach. She made a small sound in her throat and

kissed him on the cheek with lips like branding irons.

"I'm glad you have amnesia," she cooed against his ear.

"Why, for God's sake?"

     She snuggled the curling warmth of her body against him and chuckled.

"Because of this. You used to kiss me, but that was all. I wanted more,

but not you."

     He blinked at the ceiling at her words. She'd tricked him! It was a nice

trick, but still she'd cheated. All the time he'd figured that she was

some sort of mistress, or something - obviously, that's what _she_ had

wanted, but in his other life he'd never given her a tumble. It was

funny, in a way.

"You mean ... we never..."

"Nope." She chuckled again. "Aren't I a rat?"

"Vixen is more like it."

"That's a good word. I like it. Janet Vixen. How would you like to kiss

Janet Vixen, Nick Danson?"

"Suppose I get another knock on the head," he suggested, "and I lose the

memory of all this, too? Then what?"

"I won't embarrass you in front of company. C'mon, kiss me again,

stranger!"

     He rolled over and kissed her again and, tired or not, he could feel the

desire surging through him again. Her small hands moved over the muscles

of his shoulders, digging into his flesh, her teeth nibbling at his

neck. Janet was one of those odd women who can't seem to take a darned

thing serious. No matter what the risks were involved, to her making

wild love was a hell of a lot of fun and that was that. He had the hunch

that if he tried to get serious with her - marriage serious - she'd

bounce him fast. But hell, it was impossible to think of things like

that with her, besides he was having too much fun. If, he thought later,

you can call it fun when you're so weak you can't move.

     "I have to go, lover," she said finally. "Margret might come up, and I

think she would be apt to get a little put out if she caught us in bed."

"That's putting it mildly," he grinned. "Besides, I have to start trying

to find out about myself."

     "Do me a favour and don't." She pecked him lightly on the lips. "I like

the new Nick Danson a hell of a lot better. C'mon. Snap my bra."

They climbed out of bed and he helped her into her shorts and halter.

She kissed him lightly again, said; "Good-by, lover," and bounced out

into the hall, leaving him standing there, naked in the bedroom.

What a world, he thought for the hundredth time and began to gather his

clothes. When he started to put his pants on, his wallet dropped from

the hip pocket and flopped open on the floor. He picked it up, his eyes

absently noticing the card that was exposed in the clear, plastic

window. It was a Selective Service Registration Certificate and someone

had written "small scar on right forearm" under the column for general

markings. Absently he glanced at his right forearm, then his eyes

widened in shock.

There was no scar!

     A man cannot lose a scar, he told himself. He checked the card again. It

was his, made out to Nicholas Howard Danson; but the scar was missing.

He searched his arm and it wasn't there. The full realization of the

whole thing struck him suddenly like a punch in the mouth. He was _not_

Nicholas Howard Danson!

     Who was he? What the hell was going on? Had he killed the real Danson

because they were obviously look alike and stolen the guy's I.D. Why?

Was he escaping from some kind of crime? Was he a criminal, and what did

the strange dreams have to do with it?

      Numbly he climbed into the rest of his clothes and made damned sure the

.44 magnum was loaded when he strapped it on. His hands shook

uncontrollably and he felt trapped. It would only be a matter of time

before those people at the wreck figured out the whole story and came

howling after him. He had to get out.

     The screech of car brakes startled him and he leaped to the window. A

police car was in the lane and a single, plainclothes cop was getting

out. It could only be Callum. He watched as Brice pulled his Police

Positive from the speed rig and headed toward the house. Then Nick

hauled out his magnum and slammed it into the window.

Brice dived behind a bush as the magnum threw a .44 slug that barely

missed the cop. The .38 barked back and Nick ducked the splinters as the

bullet chipped the window frame.

"Come out, you fool," Brice roared.

"You go to hell," Nick yelled and fired again. "Who tipped you off,

Callum? Margret?"

     "You left Danson's watch where your flying saucer cracked up!" Brice

snapped another shot at the window.

Flying saucer? Nick blinked. What the hell was that stupid cop talking

about?

"What'd you do with Nick," Brice roared.

     Nick let the magnum answer for him, not trusting his voice. In the few

seconds that followed Nick, in his nervous excitement, emptied the

revolver at Brice, but never even grazed him. He cursed and began

thumbing cartridges into the Ruger. He was almost finished, when Callum

caught onto the manoeuvre and decided to come in closer. He stood up and

began sprinting toward the house. Nick had just yanked the hammer of the

gun back to fire as Brice came into the open but he never made it.